It's very easy for me to begin to believe the publicity about myself, whether for or against. It can give you an absurd idea of yourself. I know that there's a fine balance between accepting your own power with grace and misusing it. And I don't ever want to portray myself as a representative of the voiceless. I'm scared of that.

The only dream worth having, I told her, is to dream that you will live while you're alive and die only when you're dead.

The idea of "human rights," for example - sometimes it bothers me. Not in itself, but because the concept of human rights has replaced the much grander idea of justice.

I am a woman who is a granddaughter of a lady who used to be beaten on the head by her husband, of a mother who went through hell because she was divorced and had to bring up these kids. And I can take 10 men out to lunch and pay the bill, and nobody even thinks twice about it. So don’t mess with me.

Acceptance spells death to a writer.

When I'm outside the cities I do feel optimistic. There is such grandeur in India and so much beauty.

I think my eyes were knocked open and they don't close. I sometimes wish I could close them and look away.